Little Secrets
by Spookiesque
Summary: He tastes like the grease on his face and she can feel grit in her mouth, against her teeth and gums. He smells like two hard days' worth of work and she is positive he hasn't changed his clothing for at least four days. She doesn't want to think about how long it's been since they've been washed. She doesn't want to think about how long it's been since he's been washed. Cricket/OC


**Little Secrets**

**One Shot**

**Rated M **so...yeah

* * *

He tastes like the grease on his face and she can feel grit in her mouth, against her teeth and gums. He smells like two hard days' worth of work and she is positive he hasn't changed his clothing for at least four days. She doesn't want to think about how long it's been since they've been washed.

She doesn't want to think about how long it's been since _he's _been washed.

She threads her fingers through his thin hair, feeling all the oil and dirt. The feeling isn't pleasant, but she doesn't shy away, only grips harder. He is a messy, unclean boy. He is greasy and shaggy and broken. But he is her boy.

His scrawny arms are around her and he grips one of her thighs to his unremarkable body. He is not the kind of boy that other girls would go for.

He is not Jack.

He is not Howard.

He is not Forest.

He is weak and displays this fact as he limps along like a cart with an oblong wheel. She has to remove herself from him so he doesn't drop them both to the hard floor of his tiny shack. They would both bear the bruises and the idea of having to explain them to Jack was not something she was eager to experience.

He does not allow her the room to back completely away, though. His hands are holding on to her waist as they awkwardly shuffle around the place he calls home. His eyes are firmly sealed, so it's up to her to guide them away from the car he had her up against and to the relative comfort of his too-small bed. It takes a surprising amount of effort to remember where the bed is, and bit of trial and error before she feels the edge of it against the backs of her knees.

Unlike the first time, that confusing and clumsy first time, he is careful to lower her down rather than tumble them both over. His left knee finds itself a home between her legs while his right knee braces against the little piece of bed that isn't occupied by hot flesh, groping hands and squirming bodies. He is trembling from the effort of holding up such an awkward position with his faulty legs, so she scoots around on his bed, accepting him fully into the cradle of her thighs.

The slow-pressing weight of his body over hers is almost maddening. He is always shy in moments like this. He is hesitant and over-cautious and uncertain - as if even the slightest mistake would be a devastation. She hooks a leg around one of his own to encourage him.

_Kiss me__ harder._

_Touch me there._

Sometimes, only sometimes, did she wish she were a car. At least then his hands would be sure against her.

"…Cricket." She groans his name as he finally breaks the kiss, absently running his thumb across the exposed skin of her arm. Her tone is needy and breathy and he looks at her for a while. He looks at the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the swell of her small breasts beneath her printed dress. He looks at her parted lips, moist from his tongue and seemingly fuller than he remembers them being. He looks at the blush that has formed across her light brown skin thanks to his efforts.

Cricket exhales a shaky breath as he realizes she's slowly but surely rubbing herself against him. There is an unusual amount of masculine pride building up inside of him as she pants into the air, pulling him closer with her leg and forcing him to meet her every upward thrust. It only takes him a moment to reciprocate of his own accord, slowly grinding into her in as forceful a motion he dares to try.

She feels the hardness of his arousal pressing into her inner thigh and they both groan at the contact. In a matter of seconds, everything is suddenly unbearable. Their clothes are sticky and stifling - she has never hated a pair of pants so much. Even the is air too humid and heavy, weighing down on them like a heavy blanket. The hot summer, arid and sweltering is made doubly so as they breathe in each other's warm breath. Every exhale is an inhale and it is during rare days like this, that there is no veil. No masterfully constructed persona to hide behind to placate the masses. She tries to ignore the burning ache in the dark recesses of her heart.

_"'cause it ain't right."_ The world tells them with judgmental eyes and disapproving frowns.

Because she is not peach-skinned and of the local flavor.

Because she does not have honeyed hair and a forest in her eyes.

_Because it just isn't right._

The looks, they wound him, and his pride is not grand enough to rebuff the assaults. And his hurt is hers to share, but what can she do when she is the cause of their mutual pain?

With shy hands, he fingers the hem of her dress in silent asking. She sits up to allow him to slide the worn thing up and off her. It folds over itself as he lets it fall from his fingers and to the floor. His hands find her again and he presses lightly on her shoulders, easing her back down to the bed.

It's her turn to be shy now.

She is laid bare for him and he is unsubtle with his appraisal. Her arms slowly draw closer to her chest, meekly covering her modest endowments. She wants to do the same with her legs when his eyes glance lower, but he is still settled comfortably there and all she achieves is a whisper of a sigh from him. There is no part of her that he hasn't seen or touched, yet her modesty flares when he sees her as she is now – exposed and flushed and waiting.

When he finally looks back up, he is quick to urge her hands away.

"Don't..." he starts, but the words die in his throat. Blushing, he frees his arms from the straps of his suspenders and reaches over his head to pull his shirt off. The action disturbs his hair and tussles it into another state of haphazard brown atop his head. She doesn't get the chance to comment on the perpetual state of disarray that is his hair, because he leans down and his lips touch to her own in an almost chaste way. The kiss is slow and lingering, his fingers smoothing across her waist. In his chest, Cricket's heart beats furiously, and it's a little alarming how he can feel it in his throat.

Is this normal?

It happens every time he gets this close, and every time he has to wonder if the frantic pounding in his body is okay. For now, he doesn't care because her fingers are ghosting across his skin and the little noises that escape her when he gives an experimental push are lyrical.

It is when she sighs against his lips that his ache becomes too much to ignore. Adding to the clutter on his floor are his trousers, but he is careful in his removal of them. He does not allow her to see him fully unclothed, and the unfairness of this is not lost on him. But where she is clean and soft and normal, he is not.

He is messy and rough and abnormal, and he still isn't so sure of their relationship as to let her see all of him. Even as he guides himself to her awaiting warmth and presses slowly into her, foreheads touching, he isn't sure. Because he's seen the way she looks at Jack, and it never really bothered him before.

But now...

Since he first breathed deep the strong scent of the fields clinging to her skin, since he first held her hips in a firm grip when she meekly moved atop him to the distant sounds of owls and crickets - since that first time they touched, something changed. She stopped being that frizzy haired little tag-along he'd known since childhood and became an object of his secret desire. As he carefully moves inside her, Cricket doesn't want to think about this - doesn't want to think that what he's feeling might not be reciprocated.

And maybe it is all a show.

Maybe this whole thing is just out of pity; he doesn't know, and he doesn't care to.

Right now, with her whispering his name into his neck like tender little secrets - with her finger tracing gentle paths across his sensitive skin - with her tight around him, he has her undivided. For now, these hushed moments in his room are all he needs.

For now, it's okay.

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Man, I don't think there has ever been such a wordy bit of smut. Is this even smutty/steamy/lemony anymore? I am so sorry. There will be an alternate version of this with a little more _unf!_ released on Archive (cause I don't want my account gettin' smacked down for violating the rules on sexy times here) if anyone wants to read it. I guess.

Are there even any Cricket fans around, though? Am I alone? Anyone? Well, Cricket needs sommore love and I shall provide!


End file.
